The Case of the Masked Army Doctor
by Dhampir72
Summary: While working on a case to figure out who is behind the theft of several high-dollar artefacts in London, Sherlock finds himself at a masquerade ball. He knows that the thief is there, hiding behind a mask. But who could it be? The Woman in Red? The Devil in Westwood? Or is it the Army Doctor who Sherlock cannot help but find intriguing?


**Title**: The Case of the Masked Army Doctor**  
****Summary**: While working on a case to figure out who is behind the theft of several high-dollar artefacts in London, Sherlock finds himself at a masquerade ball. He knows that the thief is there, hiding behind a mask. But who could it be? The Woman in Red? The Devil in Westwood? Or is it the Army Doctor who Sherlock cannot help but find intriguing? **  
****Genre**: Mystery/Romance**  
****Rating**: PG-13**  
****Notes**: For the johnlockchallenges gift exchange, for thirdtimecharmed who requested masquerade!lock

**pqpq**

Sherlock Holmes never would have been caught dead at an event like this one.

It seemed as if all of London's six figure salary men and women had come to the Chancery Hotel that evening, dressed in the finest silks and furs that their plethora of wealth could most certainly afford. They came in sleek black and silver cars driven by men in white gloves and had doors opened for them by hotel staff. The caterers attending to those in the garden party were in a frenzy to get hors d'oeuvres out for consumption, in quantities that could easily feed those starving children in Africa their posh party-goers all pretended to care so much about. And although Sherlock himself never would have attended such a hedonistic affair, he actually blended in quite well with the crowd. It must have been his affinity for a well-cut suit.

**"**Your ticket, sir?" asked the valet. He wore twice-bleached gloves specifically for the occasion of taking the invitation tickets printed on very fine-quality Bohemian paper. Sherlock reached into the inner pocket of his coat and handed it over. "Mr. Mycroft Holmes," the man said, looking at the ticket and then the guest registry. Sherlock could only hope that Mycroft hadn't bothered to actually come to one of these black-tie events and had opted to stay at the office and concern himself with Her Majesty's Business instead. "Ah yes, there you are." He marked a name off in the book before handing the ticket back to Sherlock. "Have a wonderful evening." He indicated to Sherlock to continue up the stairs towards the inner hall, where he met a second valet in the doorway. This valet also had twice-bleached gloves and took Sherlock's outer coat with practiced ease.

His mobile vibrated in his trouser pocket.

_Having fun being me, dear brother?_**  
**_-Mycroft Holmes_

Sherlock did not even bother to respond. He was on a case, after all. Mycroft wouldn't understand, what with all the legwork he neither did nor cared about in the slightest. So Sherlock pocketed the phone and made for the main hall.

Just outside, there sat a table staffed by two women, both of whom giggled and fluttered their eyelashes at him a bit too much as they gathered pamphlets and other nonsense for him.

**"**It is a masquerade, you know," said the (dyed) brunette on his left. Upon the table in front of her sat many decorated masks in varying colors. Almost all had sequins. Sherlock wondered if the human obsession with these annoyingly shimmery pieces of plastic could ever be explained.

**"**You should take this one," said the (recently divorced, owner of three cats) redhead to his right. She selected a truly hideous piece and held it out to him. Sherlock would never deign wear something with cerulean beading and feathers.

He was a professional after all.

**"**Yes! It would match your eyes!" said the other (unhappily married, left-handed, mother of two) woman. Sherlock deliberately did not choose the mask offered, but instead selected a plain black one hidden beneath a monstrosity of emerald rhinestones.

**"**I'll take this one," Sherlock said.

**"**But that one isn't done yet!" said the (manic-depressive, nail biter) redhead. "It's so plain..."

**"**I prefer it," Sherlock said, and didn't let either of them get in a word edgewise after, as he quickly forfeited a few pounds and hurried by them to the main party. Pulling his mask over his face, Sherlock entered into the ballroom, stopping at the very precipice to observe the scene. It was awash in garish oriental decorations and drowning in the atrocious performance of a very sad orchestra. Above the main stage, there stretched a golden banner that read _**THE ROYAL SOCIETY FOR ASIAN AFFAIRS **_in bold letters. Paper lanterns hung in strands of red and gold globes from the high ceiling. Below them, the rich and famous danced on the floor, while others hid at their elaborately decorated tables or drank heavily by the bar.

The orchestra struck up a toe-curlingly horrific foxtrot. Cringing, Sherlock skirted by the so-called musicians and worked his way around the perimeter and then back out into the adjacent hallway in search of a good place to begin his investigation. Well, perhaps _begin _was too misleading. Sherlock truly meant _conclude _his investigation. He had been on the case for over a month now, after Lestrade finally gave in when two months passed and he had nothing new. The Met had been trying to deduce who was behind a string of thefts in London: all high-dollar items stolen from museums, galleries, and even from a coded vault at the main Lloyd's Banking Group building.

(Sebastian Wilkes had been in more of an uproar than that time Sherlock outed him for shagging the third floor resident assistant one morning at uni.)

But after Sherlock had been put on the case, there had been no more thefts, leaving him to chase rumors. It had not been the so-called "lost" Vermeer (fake) just as it had not been the highly valued JMW Turner's painting of _The Reichenbach Falls. _Two busts, but Sherlock knew that the thief would surely be out to steal something again. There were too many gems in London and not enough security to protect all of them. So Sherlock had done his research to find out what major artefacts would be displayed within the month in London and used the only three things these items had in common: rarity, difficult accessibility, and worth millions of pounds on the black market.

Tonight's piece was the perfect fit.

Although it did not appear extraordinary in any manner, the item in question was quite remarkable in the sense of who _wore _it. A Ming Dynasty empress made the value of a bit of jade skyrocket into the near ten million pound range on any given day in the illegal trade. Sherlock himself could never see the appeal of owning it: such a small hairpin. But apparently it was well-sought after. So Sherlock went to have a had it on display just outside of the main ballroom in a meeting room across the hall. The tables had been cleared away and in its place, a magnificent glass case to display the centuries old object. Velvet ropes sectioned off a space about a foot away from each side to keep onlookers from getting too close. Sherlock could tell by the guard and the cameras that they were not the primary means of defence. They had the case on secure lockdown. If someone even breathed on the glass, the authorities would be notified.

Sherlock smirked at the idea of it.

Another thing the items all had in common was the amount of supposedly impenetrable security. Someone was very good at what they did: they left nothing behind. Not a fingerprint, hair follicle, or even a bit of dried skin. They had nothing on the surveillance tapes. No eyewitness accounts. The motion detectors had not even been disabled or tripped in any way. It was as if all the heists had been performed by a ghost.

(But that was nonsense.)

The thief would be there that night, waiting for his or her opportunity to take the hairpin. Sherlock was there to make sure that did not happen. If only to see all the Yarders' faces when he caught the person they, with all their resources and manpower and "training", could not. The thought of it made Sherlock's lip twitch with the urge to smirk again, but he quelled it. He had other matters to attend to.

**"**Lovely, isn't it?"

She had been looking at him since the moment he came in the door. Then she had come closer without any hesitation, clutching a flute of champagne with her lacquered nails. Her mask matched her dress. A simple red accent with crimson sequins at the borders; the two triangles at the temples and the one resting upon her nose gave her angular face a sharper edge. She looked cat-like. Predatory.

Her lipstick was the colour of blood.

**"**Yes. Quite," Sherlock agreed. She moved a bit closer. He could see down the plunging neckline of her ballgown: rubies, most assuredly real. She tapped her scarlet stiletto to the muted sound of the orchestra across the hall.

**"**Do I know you? Have we met before?" she asked and her fingertips skirted along the side of his arm. She was flirting, but Sherlock had a feeling it was not because she was interested. Not his area, but Sherlock could tell. It was something about the way she held her mouth, positioned her shoulders.

She felt threatened.

**"**I don't believe so," Sherlock replied. Her eyes widened a bit behind her mask. They were startlingly blue. Definitely threatened, but attempting to regain some control.

**"**I _do _know you. You're Sherlock Holmes. The one they write about in the papers," she said, and tapped her red fingernail against her red lips. "What did they call you? Some kind of amateur detective?"

That hit a very fragile nerve.

**"**_Consulting _detective," Sherlock answered drily.

**"**I like detective stories," she said, and lowered her lashes. She looked seductive in red, even Sherlock had to admit that, but he knew that it was a psychological reaction to the pigment and not anything more; a chemical reaction to a colour that held the longest wavelength and therefore, the most striking visual impact. If she thought she could manipulate him, she was sorely mistaken.

When she looked up at him, her pupils had dilated approximately two centimeters.

**"**And detectives." Amazing how her body could project arousal when Sherlock could feel her unease. What had he interrupted upon coming into the room? She had certainly not been expecting him, and yet she knew him immediately. Sherlock tended to stay out of the papers, so the fact that she knew him instantly, even while wearing a mask, told the detective more than before. She had heard about him, yes, but did that make her the prime suspect? Or was she running interference for someone a bit more suited for the task at hand? Someone a bit shorter, with slighter hips and a figure that favoured contortionism? Yes, that seemed more likely. A temptress in red, that was for certain, but not his thief.

**"**Interesting," said Sherlock.

**"**What?" she asked, smiling. "Deduce me, Mr. Holmes."

**"**I already have," Sherlock said. Her smile slipped a bit as he put distance between them and gave her a mocking sort of bow. "Have a lovely evening."

Just as he left, his mobile buzzed in his pocket again.

_Nice of you to play so well with the other children._

_-Mycroft Holmes_

Sherlock looked up and, upon locating the nearest CCTV camera, made a rude gesture in its direction.

_No need to be so immature, dear brother._**  
**_-Mycroft Holmes_

Sherlock continued walking towards the ballroom, wondering if he should bother with a witty retort, when he ran directly into someone. Something wood clattered on the ground by their feet. Texting and walking apparently was apparently not the wisest choice Sherlock had ever made. It had caused him to run into an old man with a cane.

Wait.

Not an old man at all.

Sherlock had made an assumption before gathering all the data. He presumed because of the cane, the height, and the grayish blond hair colour that the man was above the age of fifty. But upon closer examination, Sherlock could see that he had been mistaken. The man truly was not that much shorter than Sherlock, but he had had his head bowed down when walking, giving him the illusion of lesser height. His hair was shot through with gray, but Sherlock wondered if that was genetics or stress. He seemed too young to already be showing, but perhaps that was what the military did to soldiers. And if Her Majesty's Army was not responsible, it was the fault of the opposing side.

**"**Terribly sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going," said the man, as he leaned over to retrieve the walking aid from the ground. His right leg remained stiff and did not bend as he did this, suggesting recent injury. If the tan line on his inner wrist was anything to go by, Sherlock would guess within the past few months. For that colour, most definitely the Middle East. Afghanistan or Iraq.

**"**Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock inquired, as the man straightened. He wore a dark blue mask with no excess decoration, but the slant of the eye cast a shadow and it was difficult for Sherlock to determine the colour of his irises.

**"**I'm sorry?" said the man. He even looked over his shoulder, as if expecting Sherlock to be speaking to someone else. It was actually quite endearing.

**"**Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock hated repeating himself, but he did it anyway, hoping the other man could keep up.

**"**Afghanistan. I'm sorry, but how did you-"

**"**Know?"

**"**Well, yes."

**"**I didn't know, I observed," Sherlock replied. This was always the fun part. And it was a party...who said he couldn't have any fun? "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists: you've been abroad, but most certainly not sunbathing. Then, there's your leg."

**"**What about my leg?" he asked, looking somewhere between affronted and curious, but leaning more towards curious.

**"**It's bad enough that you have to use a cane when you walk, but you don't lean on it when you're standing, almost like you've forgotten about it," Sherlock said, indicating the cane that the other man held in his upturned palms. With the movement of their conversation, he had forgotten to put it down and lean on it. He looked surprised, to say the least. "So it's at least partially psychosomatic, indicating that the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic. Therefore, wounded in action. And so, wounded in action, suntan-Afghanistan or Iraq?"

**"**Afghanistan," said the man. He had tilted his face a bit, chasing the shadows away from beneath the edge of his mask. He smiled. His eyes were as light blue as skies on a clear autumn day. "And that was brilliant."

**"**That's not what people normally say."

**"**What do people normally say?"

**"'**Piss off'."

He laughed out loud. Sherlock would have joined him-the sound of it was just that infectious-but he resisted.

**"**Are you a detective?" he asked.

**"**Consulting detective," said Sherlock. "The only one in the world. I invented the job."

**"**Well, that's one way to ensure a profession."

**"**Indeed."

**"**So do you work for the Yard, then?"

**"**Only when they're out of their depth," Sherlock replied, and he could not stop himself from smirking. "Which is always."

The other man smirked too.

**"**I take it you're not here for the party tonight, then," he said. Sherlock tilted his head a bit at the statement. His mind went on high alert. Everyone had to be treated as a suspect-or at least an accomplice-after all. The man leaned on his cane, still smiling, as he elaborated: "You stand out a bit."

**"**As do you," Sherlock replied. The other man wore a well-laundered suit that had been worn and cared for by someone who appreciated the money put into its purchase. But it certainly had not been tailored to fit him, or if it had, he had built up too much muscle in the army. It did not seem to sit on his shoulders properly. Surely someone who 'belonged' at such an event would have had an altered suit, as well as Italian leather shoes, a Swiss watch, and cufflinks made of pure silver or gold instead of an surely someone who attended these sorts of trivial gatherings regularly would never have thought Sherlock's deductions to be brilliant.

**"**Ah, yes, but I'm here against my will," he said, confirming Sherlock's observations. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Babysitting." He said it with more exasperation than disdain.

**"**There you are." A dark-haired woman in an emerald qipao came rushing towards them. Her mask had peacock feathers that bounced as she came to a halt near them. She made an apologetic gesture at Sherlock for interrupting the conversation while trying to catch her breath. Her gloved hand clutched at the soldier's arm.

**"**Clara? What's happened?" he asked.

**"**I can't find Harry," she said, and shook her head. "We had a fight and now..."

**"**Alright. Let's go," replied the man. He stopped just before turning away and said to Sherlock: "Terribly sorry about earlier, but it was good meeting you, detective." Sherlock said nothing in reply, just watched them walk away. The soldier was limping again and Sherlock mentally scratched him off the list of suspects. He was looking for someone more agile in terms of the thief and a bit more of pretentious asshole to constitute as the brains of the that did not mean Sherlock could not investigate him.

(It would just have to wait until later.)

So Sherlock returned to the ballroom and avoided conversation with the elitists that had positioned themselves around the buffet and bar. He could pick out the lawyers by their tie pins and the politicians by their wristwatches. He knew which women were married and which ones were pretending not to be. He also knew exactly who was having an affair and with whom. Although these observations came easily, none of the people displayed the qualities of someone capable of stealing high-dollar artefacts, while all of them had motivations to be the ones ordering the thefts.

**"**Whoa, whoa, now!"

Sherlock heard this exclamation from behind him and turned to see what was the cause of all the commotion. A woman in a black dress stood near the man who had uttered these words. He was straightening the lapels of his jacket when his gaze moved past the woman and landed on Sherlock. Behind the black mask were even blacker eyes. He smiled.

**"**Westwood," was his explanation. He shooed the girl away with his hand and she hurriedly ran away, obviously embarrassed. The man in the mask approached Sherlock with a confident gait. "Now...there's the face I'd been hoping to see. Someone to liven up this boring party. Sherlock Holmes." His smile widened. Sherlock had to wonder how it seemed so many people knew who he was, when his face had never been in the papers. "Big fan of your blog."

He held out his hand.

**"**James Moriarty."

Sherlock had no choice but to shake it. Moriarty squeezed his hand a bit too tightly, but Sherlock did not make to pull away, even when the other man did not release it immediately. **"**Have you seen the exhibit piece this evening yet?" Moriarty asked. His fingers clasped Sherlock's in a death grip as he laughed. "Oh, I know you have and that's a good thing. A very good thing." He nodded somberly. "Because it's not going to be there much longer."

**"**You're the one behind all this?" Sherlock replied.

**"**Oh, Sherly, you wound me. Did you have to ask? After I just told you?" Moriarty answered. He had a sing-song voice as he continued: "No, no, Sherlock! You're not supposed to _ask _anything at all! That's what makes you the world's only consulting detective!" Moriarty grinned. "And you know, we're quite the same, you and I. We get...so bored. It's all so boring!" He finally let go of Sherlock's hand to make a dramatic gesture in the air. (His fingertips were numb from the lack of circulation.) "So I decided to play a game! And who better to play with than you, Sherlock? You're so much fun! I had to change my plans a few times because of you."

**"**The Vermeer," Sherlock said.

**"**Fake, as you know. But if you wouldn't have figured that out then it would have been sold for over 30 million pounds. Do you know what 30 million pounds could buy?" Moriarty replied, and winked. "A lot of nukes."

**"**And the Turner painting," Sherlock said. Mycroft would be writhing at the mere mention of nuclear weapons. Sherlock just wanted to know if Moriarty was as crazy as he thought.

**"**It wouldn't have looked good in my living room anyway," Moriarty said, sighing dramatically before perking up with a cheerful grin. "Just kidding! The buyer backed out last minute. Too bad for him, but I'm thinking about making him into a pair of shoes." Moriarty laughed. "Waste not, want not."

Sherlock did not reply at first. There was no reason for this Moriarty to suddenly appear and introduce himself with such facts. Sherlock could not see the motive behind it and it bothered him. Was this the mind of a completely insane person who believed themselves to be rational? Perhaps so. Perfect M.O. for the puppeteer of a major underground network.

**"**So what do you think, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked.

**"**I was expecting someone a bit more..." Sherlock paused, let his gaze move from Moriarty's face and then down to inspect his attire. Westwood was nothing to sneeze at, but Sherlock wanted to neb regardless. "..._refined_." He put his hands into his pockets. "A few robberies and you think you're the next hot thing? Please. I know crackheads who have been dealing longer than you've been on the scene. Besides, do you truly think you'll get very far if you confess to all your deeds to just anyone?"

**"**Ah, but you're not just _anyone_, Sherlock," Moriarty replied, saying Sherlock's name in a purr, much like a lover. "You're the world's only consulting detective. It'll take the best to get the evidence to get me." He leaned forward. "And in twenty years, no one's ever gotten close." With that, he leaned back on his heels and began to walk away.

**"**Oh, and one more thing, before I forget," Moriarty said, turning to look at Sherlock over his shoulder. "There's an excellent crème brûléeat the buffet. I highly recommend it. Ta-ta!"

Sherlock watched him disappear into the crowd of dancers before reaching for his mobile.

_J__ames Moriarty. _

_-Search._**  
**_Results_**  
**_- Facebook search results_**  
**_-Jim Moriarty (Edinburgh, Scotland UK, Age 23)_**  
**_- James Moriartee (Nashville, TN USA, Age 57)_**  
**_- James Moriarty (private . no access/ /)_**  
**_- Moriarty Media_**  
**_- Moriarty Publishing House_**  
**_- Jim Moriarty (on Twitter)_**  
**_Did you mean_**  
**_- MoriarTea?_**  
**_- Teefury_

Annoyed, Sherlock went to a stricter search engine, one to which Mycroft would most certainly wonder how he had received access. He was just entering in Moriarty's name when he caught sight of the man from earlier limping towards one of the nearest empty tables. The woman in green was not with him. Not putting his own mobile down, Sherlock made a beeline for the man and sat down next to him.

**"**I need to borrow your mobile," was all he said. The man looked around, as if, once again, expecting Sherlock to be speaking to someone else.

**"**Uhm, alright..." he said, pulling the phone out of his jacket pocket. The tip of a laminated ID emerged as well. Just enough for Sherlock to catch sight of the familiar logo.

**"**Thank you, doctor," Sherlock replied, putting his mobile down for only a moment in order to accept it.

_What do you have on James Moriarty?_**  
**_-SH_

**"**Alright, you've got me again. How on earth did you know?"

_Where the hell are you?_

**"**The ID badge in your pocket," Sherlock replied, pointing in the direction of his coat without looking up from the text on his mobile's screen. "It's from St. Bart's. It makes sense that you would be a doctor there, what with your military background. I presume you were a military doctor in Afghanistan, if your nails and hair are anything to go by."

**"**Yes...but..wait? My what?"

_I asked you first, Detective Inspector._**  
**_-SH_

**"**Your nails are cut short and abnormally clean, even at the cuticles. Obviously someone who works with their hands every day, but in a way that they must be sterilized repeatedly. That says doctor."

**"**And my hair?" he asked, smoothing it down over the top of his mask as if embarrassed for having to ask.

**"**Stressful job, I take it. Even more so on the battlefield. Not to worry. Premature grayness is a common occurrence for those in your profession."

_I'll look him up. No promises, Sherlock._

_And what the hell kind of number is this anyway?!_

**"**Um...thanks... I think?" he replied, accepting his phone when Sherlock returned it to him. He immediately turned his attention to his own mobile, which had picked up nothing from the government database. Strange...over twenty years of activity and not a single investigation? Or were his files classified to the extent where even Sherlock could not access them with Mycroft's information?

**"**Is everything alright?" Sherlock glanced up from his phone to look at the other man. His blue eyes were concerned.

**"**Did everything get sorted out from earlier?" Sherlock asked. It took a moment for him to realize what Sherlock meant.

**"**Oh, yes. I think so, anyway. Harry can be childish. I think that Clara will take care of everything after she gives her speech tonight," he replied.

**"**Good," Sherlock said, but not because he truly cared. He had his own ulterior motives. He saw the Woman in Red coming his way.

"I need your help."

**"**What? Why? With what?" he asked.

Sherlock stood and held out his hand to the doctor.

**"**Dance with me."

The man's tan skin flushed; Sherlock could see it even beneath his mask.

**"**I-I'm delighted, really, but I don't think, I mean, with this leg-"

**"**Psychosomatic, remember?"Sherlock grasped onto his hand and pulled him out of his seat towards the dance floor. A quick glance at the table and Sherlock noticed that the other man had left his cane behind.

(Perfect.)

**"**I'll lead. Follow me," Sherlock instructed. His right hand kept hold of his partner's while the left settled at his hip. He quite enjoyed the colour that gathered under the doctor's skin.

**"**I'm not really, er, inclined this way," he said, once they had meshed in with the rest of the dancers. When Sherlock did not say anything, he continued, a bit awkwardly. "I mean, it's all fine, don't get me wrong, it's just-you know."

**"**No, I don't," Sherlock replied. "Not my area."

**"**What? Relationships?"

**"**Tedious. Complicated. Messy," Sherlock answered. "Usually boring."

**"**Not always."

**"**Most often."

**"**But how could anything be boring with you around?"

It came out teasing as much as complementary. Sherlock stopped looking over the heads of the crowd in search of the Lady in Red and instead turned his attention to the Army Doctor in his arms. Immediately, the soldier looked away with an embarrassed cough.

**"**You find me interesting," Sherlock said.

**"**Much more interesting than anyone else at this party," he replied. "Have you spoken to some of these people?"

**"**Mm, a bit more than that, I think."

**"**It sounds like someone is digging for a compliment. Are you a narcissist?"

**"**Of course not."

**"**Wouldn't own up to it if you were, would you?" he asked.

**"**It would defeat the point of being a narcissist," Sherlock replied.

**"**True. Well, I'll feed your ego only once more. It's because you're brilliant."

It was the second time this man had told him this and Sherlock thought he would never tire of it.

**"**I prefer extraordinary."

**"**You'd prefer anything over 'piss off'."

They were both grinning like school children.

**"**Anyway, why are we really doing this?" he asked, raising their joined hands a bit to indicate the question.

**"**Perhaps I like to dance?" Sherlock replied. The doctor rolled his eyes.

**"**I believe the phrase _not my area _comes to mind."

**"**Relationships, not dancing."

**"**It takes two to dance."

Sherlock supposed he would have to give him that.

**"**So explain," he said.

**"**There's going to be a robbery tonight," Sherlock answered.

**"**Well at least that'll liven things up," he replied. "Do you know who's going to do it?"

**"**Yes," Sherlock said, as the Lady in Red approached. The doctor's attention shifted from Sherlock to the Woman and remained focused upon her. She truly was alluring in that colour, but Sherlock would have none of it.

**"**Excuse me," she purred, sliding her hand along his partner's arm. The doctor was done in for that moment he laid eyes on her. "Would you mind if I cut in?"

**"**I don't," said the doctor.

**"**I do," said Sherlock, holding fast to his hand. He continued his dance with the doctor, turning his back to the Woman. "Don't you have somewhere to be? Something to steal?"

**"**Oh, not this time," she said, stopping him in his tracks when she put her hands upon his shoulders and leaned in to breath in his ear: "But I can tell you a secret. Something only the security guard knows."

**"**And how you know what the security guard knows?" asked Sherlock.

**"**Well, I know what he likes," she said, trailing her lips along his ear. Judging from the doctor's expression, he felt very uncomfortable about their standstill dance and the harlot in red hanging upon Sherlock's shoulders. People were staring. "Let's just say you might want to check the HVAC unit on the rooftop."

And with that, she was gone.

**"**So," said the doctor, clearing his throat. "About things being too boring for you in relationships?"

**"**We need to move," Sherlock said.

**"**I'm just saying...that looked pretty not-boring to me," he continued, as Sherlock pulled him through the crowd. The music had stopped and a speaker had come to the podium, most likely to lecture about the evening's fundraising events and whatever else of insignificant importance they wanted to yammer on about for twenty minutes. It was the woman in green from earlier-Clara-who was in charge of the opening speeches.

**"**Are we really going up to the roof?" he asked.

**"**Yes," Sherlock replied. As they exited the dance floor and passed their previously abandoned table, the detective noticed the other man grabbed his discarded cane.

**"**Ah, guess I'll miss Clara's speech. Hope she understands..." he said, more to himself than Sherlock.

**"**No time for that, I need you to come with me," Sherlock said, as they made for the furthest exit.

**"**Why? What can I possibly do? Hey, wait up a second." The other man stopped and dug his heels in with such efficiency that Sherlock had to stop and turn around. **"**This is what you do, isn't it? You can do it on your own," the doctor continued. "Why do you need me?"

In truth, Sherlock supposed that he didn't. He always worked alone and that had been sufficient so far. But something about this army doctor was so unique that Sherlock could not help himself. He had entered into two conversations with this man and not been bored. He had been complemented. He liked it. And he wanted to know if that feeling would continue or if it would eventually fizzle out and fade away. (He sort of hoped that it wouldn't.)

But he couldn't tell all of that to this man-whose name he still did not know.

**"**Someone with military expertise may be helpful in this situation," Sherlock replied, then smirked. He felt his mask slide up along his cheekbones with the motion. "Besides, it could be dangerous. Sound like fun?"

The doctor looked at him with steady blue eyes for a long moment. Then his lip twitched in a smile.

**"**Oh god, yes."

**"**Good. Now come along," Sherlock said, and took up his hold on the other man's hand again.

**"**We're going to catch a cat burglar."

**pqpq**

**"**This is not initially what I planned for this evening, just so you know."

**"**Livened things up a bit," Sherlock put in helpfully.

**"**A bit," conceded the doctor.

They were on the roof and they were being shot at by a gang of Chinese acrobatic dancers.

**"**Actually, this is probably the strangest thing that has ever happened to me," said the army doctor. He was as calm as he had been in the ballroom downstairs. This sort of scenario most likely paled to actual war, which gave him the demeanor of someone who truly had their shit together. Sherlock knew that he brought him along for something.

**"**You invaded Afghanistan."

**"**Oh, alright. The second strangest thing that has ever happened to me."

A bullet zoomed quickly by Sherlock's ear, and he ducked further down beneath the exposed vent for safety. He found himself in a half-crouch nearly in the other man's lap. Relationships like this one were proving not to be as boring as Sherlock thought. Perhaps he would give one a go sometime.

**"**So do you plan to actually shoot back, or should I attempt to do things myself?" Sherlock asked, looking down the nose of his mask at the other man.

**"**I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

**"**You're armed," Sherlock reminded him; he had felt the pull of it beneath his coat while they were dancing.

**"**And here I thought you were being a gentleman on the dancefloor," he said, reaching his arm around and behind him to remove the gun from the waistband of his trousers.

**"**I was," Sherlock replied, watching as he removed the safety.

**"**Good of you. Move please," he said, and Sherlock gave him more room to peek over the vent. Five thieves, all armed. They shot at him the moment they saw his tufts of gray-blond hair appear, but he ducked quickly down again. Their faces were centimetres apart. Even while wearing a mask, Sherlock thought the other man had a rather pleasing face. He decided he would like to study it more closely at one point.

**"**Well?" Sherlock asked. "Best course of action?"

The army doctor looked very serious.

**"**I'm going for kneecaps."

Sherlock was in love.

**pqpq**

**"**You know, I don't think I've seen anything quite so spectacular before."

**"**Ah, yes. Seeing Scotland Yard actually rush to make an arrest is truly as shocking to you as it is to me."

The doctor slapped Sherlock's arm as if to scold him.

**"**So you're saying that you don't think catching the ringleader of a Chinese drug gang and five of their most active members is quite spectacular?"

**"**No..." Sherlock said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Devil in Westwood walking by. He winked and mouthed at him: _Never gonna get me, Sherlock_. On his arm, the Woman in Red, whose gaze lingered on Sherlock much longer than Moriarty's. They weaved through the police cars and their flashing lights, disappearing into the night. "However, watching you nearly brain one of them with a cane is quite high on the list."

**"**I didn't _brain _him with it. I just used exceptional force. When I hit him in the face. After I ran out of bullets and kneecaps," said the doctor. They were both grinning, but the other man sobered up quickly and said seriously: "Stop grinning, it's a crime scene. It's not decent."

**"**Of course it's not," Sherlock replied, rubbing at the band of his mask. "But I never claimed to be decent."

**"**No, I don't suppose you did." **  
**  
They wheeled out the last of the injured gang members and loaded them into the ambulances. Sherlock avoided the investigative team coming out of the hotel by turning his back and walking along the main drive. The army doctor followed him, twirling his cane.

**"**Well, I guess you're right. I didn't really need this thing after all."

**"**Mm."

**"**Only good for when I'm out of ammo."

Sherlock fought a grin.

**"**And now the hairpin is safe and we both live to see another day," he said. They were at the main gate, where all the press stood behind a line with their flashing cameras. The limos and taxis idled as patrons and guests attempted to leave without getting their face in the papers.

**"**Yes, for now," Sherlock replied. He kept his hands behind his back and ignored the ringing of the mobile in his pocket. He did not want to deal with Lestrade's questioning. Not now, anyway.

**"**Make it sound so ominous."

**"**London is a dangerous place."

The army doctor grinned.

**"**My kind of town."

They stopped at the kerb. For a while they just stood there in their dress clothes and masks and looked up at the helicopters hovering over the scene and listened to the shouted questions from the press at the Yard members nearest them. Sherlock kept glancing at the other man. A few times, their eyes met, but they didn't say anything. Then after a while, it got a bit too cold and the crowds had begun to thin out and the other man held out his hand to shake Sherlock's. **"**Well, it's been a pleasure, detective," he said. Sherlock took hold of it. Warm, slightly callused, just like back in the ballroom; just like on the rooftop. He forced himself to shake it and then let go. Relationships were not his area.

**"**Likewise, doctor."

And they went their separate ways.

**pqpq**

After the case was closed, Sherlock began to shift his focus onto Moriarty and the Woman in Red. They were in league together in the crime-ridden underworld, but how could he possibly get them? And the more and more Sherlock thought about Moriarty and the Woman, the more he kept revisiting that night. And revisiting that night made him think of the Army Doctor. Sherlock Holmes was not good at relationships-either of a platonic or romantic nature-but he knew that there had been something between them and it bothered him that he did not know what. So when the initial search for Moriarty came to a dead end, Sherlock diverted his attention to a new project.

He laid on the couch and dosed himself with nicotine to try to figure out the mystery of his Army Doctor. It was very simple, truly. All he needed to do was access St. Bart's medical personnel folder and cross reference it with the list of guests at the party. The man had been someone's guest, but surely in an age of terrorism and other threats, they no longer just put _plus one _and instead added that person's name?

But that wasn't any fun and Sherlock did not want to be bored. So he did some investigating: pulled medical and military records, then scoured the databases. His Army Doctor came together in a series of numbers, letters, and photographs. Everything was quite ordinary upon paper: where he had gone to school (Edinburgh, then London), what sports he had played (Rugby; Sherlock knew it), what percentile he ranked in in med school (top 10%; he could have been a neurosurgeon if he wanted), his residency experience (St. Barts), his military unit (5th Northumberland Fusiliers), his discharge papers (this current year) and then his medical records upon coming home. Sherlock even pulled up some information from his therapist, who indicated he had "trouble adjusting to civilian life" due to PTSD and that he had "trust issues" and "an adrenaline addiction".

But despite all of these ordinary records with the ordinary words and the ordinary pictures, Sherlock could not help but feel that his Army Doctor was anything but ordinary.

Who grinned with Sherlock when going for kneecaps? And giggled at crime scenes? And called him _brilliant_?

_John H. Watson_

**pqpq**

Sherlock was just devising a plan to meet up with John without it seeming like stalking when his computer alerted him of an email message. It was an automated message from his blog to let him know he had a comment. Sherlock went out to his blog _The Science of Deduction _and found that the comment had been left on the very first post he had ever made. There were already a few responses from back then that called him a crackpot and a scam artist.

The newest one read:

_Brilliant._

Sherlock replied back to thread:

_Dinner? _

He waited. **  
**And waited.

And continued to wait for exactly thirty-seven and a half minutes until the next reply.

_Starving_. **  
**


End file.
